


Damage

by violenteer



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2019-10-11 09:42:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17444468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violenteer/pseuds/violenteer
Summary: “You don’t know me, do you?” Waylon asked, eyes squinted in disbelief.Eddie smiled a little, looking away toward the door. Toward the security guard behind it maybe. There was confusion in his eyes. Like the doctor said there would be.“I must confess that I don’t.” Eddie said slowly. “I’m sorry.”





	1. Chapter 1

“You don’t know me, do you?” Waylon asked, eyes squinted in disbelief.

Eddie smiled a little, looking away toward the door. Toward the security guard behind it maybe. There was confusion in his eyes. Like the doctor said there would be.

“I must confess that I don’t.” Eddie said slowly. “I’m sorry.”

Waylon’s folded hands tightened around each other in his lap. He nodded on cue but was unsure what to say. It was wrong. It was wrong, the disappointment he felt over being no one to Eddie. Being nothing to him, when Eddie had played such a large role in Waylon’s life since the asylum.

Against his better judgement, Waylon said, “Not even a little?”

His hands flew to his face. He angled his chin up and smiled grimly. Drew his hair back from his eyes. _You have amazing bone structure._

“I know I look a little different.”

Skinnier. More tired. Deranged.

Eddie followed Waylon’s movements with a wary expression. A moment later he shrugged. Shook his head and squared his shoulders.

“I do apologize. I don’t remember much from that night. I wish I remembered more.” He said.

And he sounded convincing, he probably wasn’t lying, but it only irritated Waylon. The person who made his life hell, who turned his world upside down, couldn’t even remember the night they met? Was it that easy to forget? Was Waylon so interchangeable? Did he just fade into the background of carnage Eddie created?

Waylon stood up. The security guard was out of sight, and out of Waylon’s mind. This wasn’t a prison. Even if it was, Waylon did nothing wrong. No, it was Eddie who should be standing trial.

“Maybe this will jog your memory,” Waylon muttered, untucking the dress shirt he wore.

He wasn’t looking at Eddie anymore. Could only see his feet, the toes of his shoes continuing to point at Waylon.

Eddie cleared his throat. “I don’t think… I’m not sure what you’re doing, but I don’t think it will work.”

He sounded unsure. Unconfident.

Waylon shook his head. “No, I think it will. You’ll remember this.”

The scar tissue was whiter than the rest of Waylon’s stomach. It looked ugly, this weird line cut down the middle of him. Like a botched appendectomy. Waylon hated looking at it. Hated touching it, even. It was raised, almost ridged where Eddie had cut the deepest.

“What do you think?” Waylon asked, his voice shaking in anger. “Anything?”

His eyes shot up only to realize Eddie was facing away. His skin was paler than normal, and he looked odd. Waylon almost thought he seemed…. No. There was no way. 

“Hey. Eddie. Look at me.” Waylon said.

Eddie shook his head, brow furrowing. “Please… if you could sit back down.”

Waylon unbuttoned the shirt so he didn’t have to keep holding it up. He looked stupid, his skin was running hot, he was sure his pits were soaked through with sweat. He was appalled. Unsettled. Offended.

“Let me see your hand.” Waylon continued.

Eddie finally looked back at him, avoiding his middle completely.

“I’m sorry?”

“Your hand.” Waylon repeated, holding his own out in emphasis.

Eddie’s eyes skittered down to Waylon’s chest, then to his palm and back to his face.

“Mr. Park,” Eddie tried.

Waylon stepped forward until he was all but between Eddie’s legs. Eddie spread his legs further instinctually. Avoiding touching Waylon. Avoiding him all together. Waylon wouldn’t stand for that. He reached down and grabbed Eddie’s wrist, ignoring the way Eddie half-heartedly drug it back to his side, refusing to stop until Eddie’s palm was hiding Waylon’s scar.

His hand was big enough to cover almost all of Waylon’s belly. Their skin tones were similar. Eddie’s hand was cold, though, where Waylon’s skin was blisteringly hot.

“Ah…” Eddie blanched, looking profoundly upset.

“Do you remember me?” Waylon repeated.

His voice had become shrill. Edging on hysterical, maybe.

Eddie began to shake his head. So Waylon grabbed his other wrist and forced him to hold his waist. He got in between the ‘v’ of Eddie’s legs, the fabric of their pants shifting faintly against each other.

Waylon watched Eddie’s expression carefully, but all he really saw was shock. Maybe revulsion if he searched harder. Or maybe Waylon was making that up. He shuddered when Eddie wrapped his fingers around to properly hold his hip, body going rigid one moment, then slumping the next.

“I remember every minute I spent with you.” Waylon ground out. “So you need to remember me, too.”

Eddie glanced up. His strange blue eyes were wide.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s quiet. You don’t know what to say, and Waylon doesn’t know how to make you get over what he’s just done. Your hands are attached to him, clutching him by the hips; it’s skin to skin.

You haven’t touched someone in this way in a long time. Possibly, decades. You spent your time alone in Mount Massive Asylum. It was safer for you that way. You didn’t want to form attachments. You weren’t interested in creating an alliance amongst the sea of savages that surrounded you.

On your own, you were content to read and write and sew. The sewing was the most comforting aspect of your stay, by far. There was no shortage of fabric once you knew where to look, no shortage of sewing tools and machines, no shortage of ideas in your mind’s eye. You loved to sew. It was the one thing your mother taught you when she was alive.

Yes, she wanted her little Eddie to be a homemaker. She wanted you to be gentle, as she had been gentle.

You feel the gentleness of the moment at far reaches of your perception. Waylon is giving you a look you can’t avoid. He’s appalled at you, and though you don’t remember him or what you’ve done, you can see how deeply it wears at him.

He must ache from the inside out with the way he’s had to continue on after your meeting.

The doctors won’t tell you what happened. You don’t know. The news isn’t allowed to play, not on any station. Not even the finance parts. No, your rehabilitation facility is far too afraid of the idea that you may somehow be subjected to your guilt, and then what would become of you?

You’re not so sure you buy all of those dramatics. But Waylon’s presence does make you wonder....

"I’m sorry," you try again, not daring to move away for a long and loaded moment. "If I knew what I did, I would tell you how truly regretful I am. I would detail every second of my shame."

Waylon starts to look away, shuffle his feet, so you trudge on. "Mr. Park - Waylon, I would."

At that, he seems to snap out of it. Whatever he’d wanted from you, whatever precipice he was on the edge of, he reels himself back quickly. Your hands break away from his hips as he wobbles on the balls of his feet. He shakes his head. His hands are shaking as he rebuttons his shirt.

"Mr. Park. You’re really polite now, you know? What happened to - oh, fuck." Waylon shakes his head.

You tilt your own head, curious now.

"What?" You ask.

He looks up sharply, as if somehow he forgot you’d been there. His expression is harder again. Hidden beneath another one.

"You don’t remember." He spits.

You nod. "But I want to. For people like you." Victims of yours.

"There’s only one of me." Waylon murmurs.

The words unsaid hang in the air between the two of you: I’m the only one that’s still alive to look at you.

Your pale eyes trail away from Waylon. You think you feel dejected. There’s something dark in your chest that you can’t name, and Waylon has put it there.

Waylon sighs again. He must be tired of being near you. You don’t understand, not really. Shame still prickles your skin.

"What did I call you?" You ask.

You can’t help yourself. You have these hazy memories of an entire block to yourself. There was no one else around for such a long time. It was just you and the sewing machines and the dresses. It was all you needed. But something must have changed. Maybe it was from the Engine. From the Walrider, you became something else. Someone different. It must have been.

Why can’t you remember any of it?

Waylon’s expression shutters completely. "The doctors won’t tell you?"

"They might in time." You offer.

It sounds hollow to you both, you’re sure. But still... your interest is terribly piqued.

 

“It’s probably smart,” he says, sounding like he’s talking to himself. 

 

His eyes aren’t on you anymore. They’re stuck to your... shoes. His eyes are on your shoes. 

 

“Your mind... the engine... it’s not like you meant it,” Waylon continues, sighing again. 

 

“It was bad, then,” you finish unhappily. “Your scar. I did that to you?” 

 

You didn’t get a clear look at it when Waylon was all but on your lap because you were too concerned with, well. Waylon being almost in your lap. But now it comes back to your mind: he was showing you something. You hadn’t looked. 

 

You were too focused on Waylon’s face. You wanted Mr. Park’s full attention on you, and you’d gotten it very briefly. His rage is boiled down to passion in your romantic mind. 

 

Distantly, you’re aware that your thoughts are taking strange turns, but the resulting caution is watery. It bleeds away from you. 

 

“You tried.” Waylon seethes. 

 

“Why did you come?” You ask him. 

 

You know it’s not your place, but you don’t understand his rocketing emotions. You’re not responsible for his anger. You have no idea where it comes from, even now. 

 

You’ve been in recovery for months. Waylon Park has been in his own recovery, you’re sure, for the same amount of time. You have nothing to give him; you want to tell him as much. 

 

“I don’t remember. You can try to jog my memory if you wish. This facility is very well-staffed. You would be in no danger.” Theoretically. 

 

It’s a challenge you wouldn’t ordinarily construct. You don’t like the idea of pushing Mr. Park into a corner. But maybe you’re tired. Or maybe you’re restless. Or maybe you’re looking for something real. 

 

That dark feeling still hovers above your heart, and maybe you want that gone, too. 

 

Waylon stares at you hard for a few seconds before shrugging. He walks closer again, and you try not to move at all. Not forward or back. 

 

He crowds you again and puts his foot up on the tiny triangle in between your legs and the lip of your chair. It’s an intimate position. Not uncomfortable, but you show discomfort anyway. 

 

Waylon lifts his pant leg up a little to show you something. It’s... a scar. Knotted flesh that sits where the swell of his ankle bone would normally be. It’s ugly. 

 

“Slut was the word you used most often. When ‘darling’ wasn’t working out.” 

 

Waylon doesn’t sound angry. He doesn’t sound accusatory. 

 

“May I?” You ask quietly. 

 

Waylon shakes his head, but he doesn’t move. You gently trace the scar with the tips of your fingers, careful not to touch. 

 

He watches you. You look up and catch him watching you. There’s a flare of emotion in his eyes before he puts both his feet back on the ground. 

 

“You must have been very frightened.” You tell him. 

 

You’re aiming for sympathy. There’s a twisting in your gut that’s never been that sympathetic. 

 

Waylon reads your face for long moments. 

 

“I still am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The day I write something coherent or completely satisfying, I’ll most likely have been body snatched. 😌


	3. b-side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> alternate continuation :~)

 Eddie squeezes Waylon’s hips again, purposefully this time. 

 

“Did I do this to you?” He asks, shell-shocked by the idea. 

 

“Some of this.” Waylon spits. “You did some of this, too,” 

 

And then he gets down to Eddie’s level. He sits in Eddie’s lap, balancing himself with his arms on either side of the bench the two of them are now sitting on. 

 

Eddie leans back and away from Waylon. His Adam’s apple bobs, his eyes move from one part of Waylon to the next. Fear. Or confusion. Or discomfort. Or lies. 

 

“How can you forget all those men? All those bodies?” Waylon asks. 

 

He winds his hands up Eddie’s shirt. It’s a button-down. Even in rehab, it seems Eddie has a specific style he tends toward. How good of the staff to give him control over his clothing. 

 

“We shouldn’t be touching,” Eddie murmurs.  

 

He looks a little lost, now. 

 

“Why not?”

 

“The doctors-,”

 

“Aren’t here.” Waylon finishes. “Don’t you want to know what you did?”

 

Waylon puts his right hand in Eddie’s hair. He smooths it back. Pushes it forward. Eddie frowns and moves to stop Waylon, but then Waylon’s capturing his hand and replacing it on his hip. 

 

“Stay still. I was still. Be _still_ ,” He seethes impetuously. 

 

All of this is impetuous; Waylon is acting completely on impulse. If he doesn’t do this now, he never will. 

 

“If I had a knife, or a table saw, this would be a little more realistic,” he continues. 

 

Eddie’s eyes widen. 

 

“What - what would those be for?” His voice is uneven. 

 

“Did you kiss all of the men you killed? All of the women?” Waylon talks over him. 

 

His gut is rolling. He feels sick. He hasn’t been so turned on since before Murkoff. It’s bad. Waylon can’t stop. 

 

“I didn’t,” Eddie shakes his head.

 

He looks confident in what he’s saying. 

 

“I _wouldn’t_.” 

 

“You _did_.” Waylon bites out. 

 

They’re sharing air. Eddie’s hands haven’t moved again, but Waylon’s still do. 

 

He’s caressing Eddie’s middle. Smoothing his hands over his rib cage. Moving them from front to back, fingertips making maps out of Eddie’s skin. 

 

Eddie shivers. Waylon delights in it. 

 

“You don’t remember that either, do you?” There should be someone coming. 

 

An orderly. Someone to check in and make sure this visit is going smoothly. But there is no one. Not yet. 

 

Eddie blanches and shakes his head. His eyes are clouded over. Expression slightly vacant. 

 

“Let me jog your memory,” Waylon whispers. 

 

He kisses Eddie’s neck, first. It’s disgusting; he’s disgusted. But the control Waylon feels? It can’t be matched. He’s on his own turf. He’s playing his own game. And fuck Eddie if he can’t follow along like Waylon couldn’t follow along. Fuck him for trying. 

 

Eddie gasps. 

 

“Mr. Park,” his voice is hoarse. 

 

His hands have moved again, to Waylon’s chest. To push him away. 

 

“No breasts there, sorry,” Waylon breathes, “you never got to that part with me.” 

 

Eddie shudders all over. 

 

“Hey, Eddie,” Waylon says. 

 

Eddie blinks and tilts his head and Waylon goes in for the kill. He grabs Eddie by the back of his neck and draws him in. Waylon bites Eddie’s bottom lip and sucks on it. He shoves his tongue in Eddie’s mouth, forces him to respond to the pressure.

 

Eddie makes a choked off noise. His hands become more, then suddenly much less insistent. 

 

Waylon grinds down to find that Eddie is as achingly hard as he has been since he left the asylum. It’s too fucked up to think about, so Waylon focuses back on the moment. 

 

He creates a rhythm for them. Sucks on Eddie’s tongue and licks his teeth and bites his lips. He goes off book. He does whatever he fucking wants. 

 

Eddie takes it. He doesn’t try to push Waylon away, not even when they break to breathe. 

 

He actually moves in. Almost like he wants more. Like he can’t get enough. 

 

“Slut,” Waylon breathes. 

 

He smiles viciously, and finally, finally, starts to feel satisfied. 


End file.
